Thursday
AKANNI POV
December crept in quietly, the way important things often do.
One day it was late November, the next the city had begun to breathe differently—traffic heavier, radios louder with Christmas jingles, shops glowing longer into the night. Even the air felt expectant. And then there was my birthday, sitting boldly in the middle of the month like a reminder I couldn't outrun - I am turning Twenty-nine.
Bukky noticed it before I did.
"You've been quieter lately," she said one evening as we sat in my living room, her legs folded neatly beneath her. She was wearing one of my shirts—white, slightly oversized on her, sleeves rolled once. It struck me how comfortable she looked, how naturally she belonged there.
"Just work," I lied easily.
But it wasn't just work.
It was the feeling that something was approaching. Something defining.
December had always meant reflection for me—successes counted, failures weighed, people measured by who stayed and who didn't. This year felt heavier. Not burdensome, just… significant.
And somewhere beneath it all was the thought I kept pushing aside:
I don't want to enter another year without making my intentions clear.
BUKKY POV
I had already decided by the first week of December.
I just hadn't decided how.
Akanni's birthday was two weeks before Christmas, and the timing felt poetic—almost too perfect. I wanted the surprise to feel intimate, intentional, unforgettable.
Not loud. Not crowded. Just… ours.
The first thing I chose was the dress.
I stood in the boutique longer than necessary, my fingers brushing fabrics like they carried answers. I dismissed the bold reds and deep greens—they felt festive but distracting. I wanted something that spoke softly but stayed remembered.
I chose ivory.
A long, flowing dress with a cinched waist, soft sleeves, and a back that dipped just enough to feel vulnerable without being exposed. Elegant. Feminine. Honest.
"This one says wife, not girlfriend," the saleswoman joked.
I smiled, but my heart was racing.
Then came the ring.
Not extravagant. Not tiny either. A simple band, delicate, timeless—something that said I choose you, not look at me. I imagined his face. The pause. The way he would blink slowly when emotions caught him off guard.
I practiced the words alone at night.
Akanni - "will you marry me?"
Me - "yes"
No. Too abrupt.
Akanni - "I've walked into your life gently, but I want to stay permanently."
Too poetic.
Eventually, I stopped rehearsing.
I decided to let the moment speak.
MIRA POV
December had always been loud for me.
Deadlines. Expectation. Emotions resurfacing uninvited.
But this December was different.
I had been watching Akanni for months now—not intrusively, just… attentively. Watching the way his voice softened when Bukky called. The way his house no longer felt empty even when he was alone. The way laughter returned without effort.
I wasn't jealous.
Not the way people expected me to be.
What I felt was clarity.
I finally understood what my love for him had always been—quiet, protective, selfless.
Not romantic.
I didn't want him.
I wanted his happiness.
So I chose my outfit carefully too.
Not dramatic. Not seductive.
A powder-blue dress—knee-length, simple cut, soft against the skin. Something that reflected peace, not possession. Something that said thank you, not stay.
Tuesday
AKANNI POV
Everyone was acting strange.
Bukky was suddenly evasive with plans. Mira avoided eye contact longer than usual. Even my mother started smiling at me like she knew something I didn't.
On the morning of my birthday, I stood in front of my wardrobe longer than necessary.
I finally settled on a tailored navy suit—clean lines, no tie, white shirt beneath. Something mature. Intentional. I didn't know why, but dressing casually felt wrong.
That night, Bukky asked me to meet her somewhere quiet.
"Dress nicely," she said. "Please."
I smiled. "Always."
Bukky's surprise came first.
Candles. Soft music. Just the two of us.
When she stood before me in that ivory dress, time stalled.
She didn't overthink.
She simply took my hands, looked into my eyes, and said,
"I don't want to plan life without you in it. Wishing you the best of the very best My King" she said.
My head was all crowed with emotions.
Later That Night
Mira came later, after Bukky had left to give us space.
She stood across from me in blue, calm and composed.
"I'm not asking you to marry me," she said before I could misunderstand.
"I'm asking you to accept my gratitude—and my goodbye."
She handed me the ring.
I understood immediately.
We hugged. Long. Quiet.
And for the first time since I met her, she felt free.
Tuesday
DECEMBER SETTLES
Christmas arrived gently.
The family gathered. Laughter returned fully. Busayo cried quietly when Bukky hugged her without hesitation. My mother watched everything with satisfied silence.
And as the year prepared to close, I realized something profound:
Love didn't come to me loudly.
It came prepared.
Dressed intentionally.
And stayed.
Christmas morning came with noise.
Not the chaotic kind—this was laughter bouncing off walls, the smell of food layered in the air, the clink of plates, the sound of greetings overlapping each other. The house had not felt this full in years.
By 10 a.m., the living room was already crowded.
My parents sat side by side, my mother in a deep wine lace, my father in traditional white agbada, regal without trying. Busayo hovered around the kitchen doorway, pretending to supervise but mostly watching everything unfold.
Then Bukky arrived.
She wore emerald green—simple but striking, her hair pulled back softly. She greeted everyone respectfully, her smile genuine, unforced. Mira came in shortly after, dressed in cream, carrying desserts she insisted on contributing despite my mother's protests.
And for the first time, they stood side by side.
Not rivals.
Not replacements.
Just two women who understood their places in my life —without tension.
"Good morning ma," Bukky greeted my mother, bending slightly.
My mother smiled. "You're glowing."
"I think that's love," Mira said lightly, and Bukky laughed.
Busayo watched from a distance. She didn't say much, but she didn't walk away either. That alone felt like progress. I don't know why she got too attached to Mira
Leke arrived with his wife just before noon, both dressed casually but coordinated. His wife hugged Bukky immediately. She whispers something to Bukky, while she laughed. "I think he was already settling. I just showed up." She said this one loudly
Food was served outside under the canopy—jollof, fried rice, goat meat, chicken, salads, drinks flowing freely. Conversations blended—business, memories, jokes that only family understood.
At one point, I caught my father watching Bukky help my mother in the kitchen.
"She fits," he said quietly. I nodded.
The way she fit into spaces without trying to own them—it was what made everyone accept her so easily. Mira had once fit that way too, and the family had come to terms with the truth of what her role had been. They respected her, appreciated her, and let her go with dignity.
Only Busayo still struggled with the finality of it.
But even she laughed when Mira joined her to tease me about childhood stories.
By evening, gifts were exchanged, photos taken, and exhaustion settled in comfortably.